This is How We Say Goodbye
by Fireflamesinferno
Summary: He's alone and tired and he doesn't want to act like she's gone. Like she's dead. But then she slips in from the night for a final and rather unconventional farewell. This is how they said goodbye.


**This is How We Say Goodbye**

He's alone and tired when it happens. Jack's at Jessica's, and Hotch is at home in solitude, only joined by the company of a shot of bourbon that he hasn't even touched yet. And probably won't, because he needs something stronger than a drink to stomach the day down.

The funeral. Hell, the funeral. Where they marched silently through a cemetery with only the faint sound of woodpeckers and the gentle nudge of a somber breeze tugging at their hearts strings and compelling them towards the damn hole in the ground. Where they put her coffin.

Except it's more like one of those Russian doll things because no matter how many layers you pull back, it's still empty inside. There's no room for the living dead in the basement of the earth.

And that's just it, isn't it? It's the dark shadows under Rossi's eyes, the way Reid's have been perpetually red-rimmed, how Penelope can't muster a joke, how Morgan has retreated into himself, how Seaver doesn't know how to comfort any of them. How JJ looks at him with tears in her eyes across the empty box and all he can think is, _when did she become such a great actress?_

He swirls the bourbon in the glass again, watching as the amber licks at the side, whirling with hurricane force.

That's when it happens.

He hears the creak, and in two seconds, he's got his Glock cocked at the darkness of the back hall. Hotch waits patiently like a curled tiger because _there's something in the shadows._

"Can't kill a dead girl."

And then there's her voice and he exhales in all kinds of emotions. But mostly just anger because _why the hell isn't she out of the country yet?_

Also, why was she here with him when he obviously never wants to see her again because he knows she has to be dead to him for the sake of everyone else and _hell _if he can't bear to see her now.

He sheathes his Glock in the holster next to him on the couch and says the magic word that he can't ever say again, "Prentiss."

As if she had been some sort of nocturnal harpy, she slides out of the shadows, conjured from the night. The first thing he notices is that her hair's shorter and she's brushed the bangs to the side. And she's wearing midnight blue. And she looks really, really good.

As in not dead.

But he knows that already, even if he couldn't quite make it real till just now. She regards him and his bourbon and he suddenly feels naked, because who is this creature really? Has he ever known her?

"Hi, Hotch."

He wants to touch her, because maybe even he believed for a second she was in that box. Because JJ's tears were so real. Because his chest feels more hollow than he knows the coffin was.

He's about to tell her she needs to go, because it's not safe for her to be here, where her living spirit still slips around, where there's an imprint of Emily Prentiss that makes her a target.

But she speaks first. "I know you think I shouldn't be here, but I'm leaving in an hour anyway, and WITSEC agents aren't that hard to drop. I'll leave soon, I just—"

She stops because he guesses she can't say anymore. Because they're not really that good of friends, but he's also the last vestige of Emily Prentiss that she can brush before she's gone for good. Because he's the only one who knows, so he's the only one she can give a proper goodbye to.

He moves his Glock to the coffee table, clearing a space on the couch. She moves next to him, and he feels the couch indent at her weight and he thinks she already must be part ghost because she's barely there at all.

Then there's silence that wraps around him and goes through him and permeates from every pore of the room. There's so much to say and nothing to say at all and he wishes he just had more time. Because Hotch and Prentiss don't ever consider personal lives because that's who they are, _so really_, he thinks, _when have we ever even thought about what we mean to each other? When have we ever even considered it until now? When it means goodbye._

What was there to say? Were they really friends? Yes. But anything besides that? Anything substantial enough to talk about now, in their last chance?

He knows he trusts her with his life, that he admires her so, so much, that she's impetuous and beautiful and he can't even think about her 90% of the day because she's too enigmatic and dangerous for him to even contemplate, because he immediately thinks about her in a way he shouldn't, because she's uncharted, _hellishly _exotic territory.

And that's that.

But now? When this is it?

So he looks at her. And she looks up at him. And it's like he's looking at her for the first time and he thinks there could have been something mind-blowing here had they flirted with the thought much, much earlier. Before the end times. Before their own microcosmic Armageddon.

And he sees the curves of her face and the way her nose perks out perfectly above those fascinating lips and the way her eyes are so, so sad and gone and wraith-like. He knows he's never touched her before, but this is the last chance.

It's a small thing, really. His hand reaches up and he cups her cheek and it's nothing like what he thought it would be. She's freezing and the way her ear meets her face is _enchanting _and her skin feels like ivory and wood and water all at once and he can't think anymore.

She leans into his hand and her eyes flick close for a moment before she's looking at him again, because if this is it, there's no room for shut eyes. Dead eyes.

There's a moment where the orange halo of light from a streetlamp outside the window catches her just right and he's suddenly miles away in a place that's never been. Where he could fall asleep to this face and wake up to this face and live and die to this face.

But that's not here. That's not now where she's going to slip outside his window into the night and it'll be like a dream leaving his consciousness in the morning and he can only touch at small fissures and miniscule aspects. Breadcrumbs leading nowhere.

Except he won't forget this. He won't let himself.

So he does something about it and leans forward. And for a moment he thinks it might go somewhere they don't want it to, but he hasn't had any bourbon yet, and he isn't stupid enough to give them _that _kind of scar.

Instead, his head meets some sort of upper part of hers, and his lips are even with her eyes, so he places feather light kisses on the lids and settles there for a moment.

And they just breathe together.

He drowns and he flies all in one and this must be how _this_ feels, though it's all too surreal to even believe.

He feels a warm puff of air from her hit his throat, and then she's saying something. "Have you ever had nutella?"

He has no idea why in _hell _she's asking him this, but he can't think of anything to say but "Yes."

She laughs a little. "I haven't. All those years in other countries and I've never had it. And I know you can buy it here too, but it's not the same." And he can taste her breath now. He feels her blinking eyes against his lips. "That's the first thing I'm going to do when I get there. Eat nutella."

He wants to laugh or cry, but when has he ever done either? Rarely. So instead, he breaches the moment. "You'll like it. It's good."

And she laughs again and places a small kiss at the crux of his throat, just a brush of mouth on skin, and then she's up and turning and she melds into the night once more.

Hotch swirls his bourbon in his glass again, watching as the whirlpool stirs, then calms down into a ripple, followed by stillness.

He stands and goes to the kitchen and pours it down the sink.

And this was how they said goodbye.

AN: This was inspired by a moment where I recently said goodbye to a dear friend for an indefinable amount of time. And I couldn't say it for real. Because it's a hard word to choke out. Ugh. Paget come backkkkkk. Plllleeassseeeeee. Also, a dialogue between me and my mother during 6x18:

Me: Why's Rossi asking Seaver? This is dumb.

Mom: She doesn't do anything. Seaver does as much as my toe.

Please review.


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